<Storyteller> The address given to Dalia where the Prince usually meets newcomers turns out to be a nightclub. Though at the holiday it seems quieter than it usually might be on the weekends. There are a pair of bouncers outside who don’t interfere with her passing inside, and once inside the music hits her like a brick. The place, though not particularly lively tonight, has a large number of people still present with lots of loud music and lights which bounce off of a room-length mirror. There is a second door there, by the mirror, with another pair of bouncers.

Dalia strolled into the nightclub, lips pursed tightly. She does not at all seem to be comfortable beneath the bright lights and blaring music, but does her best to suck it up. Her eyes flick briefly through the crowd, before she makes her way towards the bouncers in the back. Even her manner of dress seems out of place in the nightclub; she’s worn a simple, grey dress – far from high, modern fashion.

<Storyteller> The second set of bouncers allows her to pass as well, and as she enters the VIP section she finds it much quieter in there. The room is decorated in more simple, comfortable fashion, like an old pub or bar. There is a bar in the back and several booths and couches about the place, many facing the way she came from. The mirror is one-way, and from this side people can be seen clearly going about their dancing and drinking. Off next to the bar there is a man in a chair, who stands as she approaches. His bearing becoming much more potent the closer she gets and it’s as if the room itself becomes colder as his gaze falls onto her.

A brief circumspection of the room seems to make Dalia a tad more comfortable – perhaps it’s the lack of people around, or the change in decor. It is not a comfort that lasts long however, and her slacked shoulders tighten back up as the man in the chair stands, and she feels the palpable authority in the air. Her chin dips in a respectful nod, and she says, “Good evening.”

<Michael Bishop> sets his black wineglass to the side as he regards Dalia for a moment before speaking. “Another new face, I see.”, his voice sounds as if it’s trying to remain friendly and yet still has a biting cold edge to it. “Why are you here?”

“I hope to make my residence here in the city, sir.” Dalia spoke as evenly as she could muster, under the silent pressure of his eyes. “I hope to make my residence in the city, sir.”

<Michael Bishop> narrows his gaze without blinking, watching her. “You name, and your clan?”

“Dalia Adara Roydon, Apprentice of Clan Tremere.”

<Michael Bishop> turns his head slightly, actually taking his gaze off of her for a second as the corners of his mouth turn downward. “Another Tremere, how lovely.”, he says with a less than sincere tone to his voice. “You’ll find your kin out at an old plantation house down Mulberry Road. Assuming they haven’t told you where to go already.”

Dalia gives him a tiny nod, her lip twisting ever so slightly with dismay at his palpable distaste towards her kin. Still her demeanor remained as reserved as she could manage. “My sire had informed me as much, but thank you nonetheless.”

<Michael Bishop> eyes her again and then nods once. “Very well. I expect that the Traditions will be kept in order. You may stay as long as you need for as long as that remains true.”, he says finally and then sits back in his chair though he doesn’t take his eyes off her.

“Of course. Of that much, you can be certain – my loyalty to the common order is, and always will be, unwavering.” Dalia utters these words with a bit more firmness than had previously been in her tone. She doesn’t quite meet his gaze, instead her eyes seem to waver and flicker away occasionally, as if meeting his eyes for too long caused her pain.

<Michael Bishop> nods once and then takes his gaze off her finally, picking his drink back up and staring out toward the people on the other side of the glass.